XIII. WHEN on bleak Jura's hills I stood, and saw, O Italy, from far those heights sublime Which curtain thee from every ruder clime, A feeling of deep love and nameless awe Wrapped my bowed heart, and mutely did I draw Reverencing breath: Thy glories in old time, Thy second spring yet dearer than thy prime, Such homage claim as by a natural law From souls which own a sense of all that earth Can boast of grand and lovely;—but, oh God! Still must thy consecrated soil be trod By the polluting hoofs of dullest slaves? No, open on them with a thousand graves, And stand in Majesty and Freedom forth! |